Vesse i Tano
by Joan Milligan
Summary: Fire and ice, storm and peace, beauty and tragedy. The story of Nerdanel and Feanor.
1. Default Chapter

(Really long and pointless) author's note:  
  
This is the biggest Middle Earth related project I've yet to take up, so you'll excuse me if I say a few words (it makes me feel important and will reduce the possibility of me going after flamers with chainsaws).  
  
This is a Silmarillion-based work, focusing on the characters of Feanor, greatest of the Noldor, and his wife Nerdanel: the relationship between them, how it came to be, and how it went up in smoke. This is also a story about art, artists and the affects of art and artists on society, the people close to them, and themselves.  
  
The character of Feanor as portrayed in this story may differ greatly from those my colleagues have described so excellently in their works. This is my Feanor; we have a lot in common. The focus is on aspects of him that I feel have been somewhat neglected, even by the great Master Tolkien himself, so it should be different, though hopefully not in a negative way.  
  
This story owes its existence mostly to the Silmfics group – not a better place to hang for a good First Age discussion exists on the entire net. It is also dedicated to a number of people:  
  
Firstly, to Deborah, because it was her birthday and I couldn't think up a slash story for her (except Galadriel/Idril, but let's not go there), and because of "A Very Fire".  
  
Also, to Nemis and Oboe-Wan, who demonstrated with the character of Gil- Galad and Celeborn respectively how any footnote could be brought to life.  
  
Thirdly, to the Fanfiction.net Feanorians: Ithilwen (for "Comes the Dawn"), Finch (for "Under the Curse"), Le Chat Noir (for "That Which Shines West"), Alena (for "Long Night") and Cirdan (for "Paradise Lost"). (Hmm, add Deborah and me and it makes seven. One wonders…)  
  
Finally, to Philosopher At Large (let the Vala sort 'em out!).  
  
A final nod to Nemis for translating the story's title. In case you're wondering, it's Quenya for "The Artist's Wife".  
  
Now I'll finally be quiet so you all can get to the story. The first chapter is strange, an experiment in atmosphere, so to say, hope you'll like it. 


	2. Eyes Meet Eyes

Chapter One:  
  
"Eyes Meet Eyes"  
  
  
  
  
  
The clay was soft under her fingers, yielding, taking shape as she willed it to. Brown earth and clear water, not much more than mud at first, but under her hands it seemed to glow with the light of possibilities. With quick motions, seasoned by confidence and experience, she drew in it shapes and lines, casting upon it a semblance of reality, or maybe rescuing the little pieces of reality that lay hidden within it. A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral.  
  
"Child, have you heard a word I said?"  
  
She looked up from her work for one moment, casting a glance across the room, her fingers still working relentlessly with a will of their own. At a wooden desk twenty feet away, an Elven boy about her age grudgingly looked from his books to the face of his teacher.  
  
"I'm listening, Master Mahtan," he said gloomily.  
  
She smiled and leaned back over the clay, perfecting an edge, a smooth surface, adding new impressions in layer upon layer slowly making up the whole. Her father, who would not normally take up the task of teaching, sighed as he was forced to scold his student for what she counted to be the fifth time in the last hour.  
  
"My boy, if you have not the patience to study, you cannot expect to become an artisan. Perhaps you should consider another trade…"  
  
Silently she looked on, taking in every subtle shifting in body and mood as the young student's eyes grew wide. The clay was cool and moist in her hands, comforting in its feel, taking shape as life does, slowly, with every little touch changing it but slightly, building toward the complete creation of the ending. She drew the shape of flesh and bone, carefully, lovingly.  
  
"Another trade? No, sir, this is all I wish to do, now and forever…" a touch of a smile lit up the teacher's face. His hand rose somewhat, as if aching to stroke the boy's dark hair. "But it drives me mad, sitting here all day over this book or another. Can I not learn from doing?"  
  
The teacher sighed again, but this time with gentle understanding. She turned her attention to the exquisite details required of the features slowly forming in the clay, the exactness of the lines of the face, the unique shape of the nose, cheekbones and lips. The eyes she left to the end.  
  
"I understand if you grow bored," the teacher said softly, smiling at his frustrated charge. The boy's hands slipped over the pages of the book, he was unconsciously chewing on the end of the pen, radiating restlessness and the energy of unrestrained youth. With painful attention to the least of hints, she saw something more in the way he moved and the tone of his voice, something that seemed to come also upon the shaping clay.  
  
"It is not quite boredom," the student confessed. He had large hands, and the fingers tangled and untangled, as if trying to express what words could not. "I feel as if something burns inside me, and every hour I sit here makes it more painful to bear. I have no name to call it, but it's there."  
  
She looked to the teacher a moment as he frowned, following the exchange, the shifting of the glances, the cycle of action and reaction. Her fingers worked quickly over the clay, preserving emotion, drawing upon the strange grace in the boy's face as he looked for answers that were not to be found. Her fingers sank in the yielding material, drawing fine lines, feeling it as if it was a part of her, breathing with it, thinking with it, finding the exact touch, the exact shape. Her work was almost done.  
  
The teacher's eyes lingered on the student a short while more. Finally he spoke, quietly, but not without fondness. "Close this book and go play a while, little Spirit of Fire."  
  
The boy's eyes lit up. Quickly he slammed the heavy book closed and pushed back the chair, then sped out of the room, laughing as he opened the door and the light of the golden Laurelin poured in. One moment he stood in the doorway breathing in, and then was gone.  
  
The teacher chuckled, moving away from the desk to stand by his daughter's side as she placed the last touches on what was no longer simply a chunk of clay. He lay a hand on her shoulder and she looked up to him, smiling.  
  
"It came out very well, didn't it, Father?" she asked.  
  
He nodded proudly, studying the statue. In the clay was depicted his young student, head leaning on one hand, staring upward at thin air. The clay eyes were distant, unfocused, a dreamlike air spreading from them upon the creation as a whole. A low laugh escaped the teacher.  
  
"Little gem, he never looked more alive."  
  
**********************  
  
The coppery glint in her hair was like a constant reminder of starlight. He had never seen anyone with hair quite like that. His father's new wife had hair as golden as the younger Tree, and now her young son had it too. It was very pretty, but common enough. He had never seen anyone with such flames burning in their hair. When she tied gems in it, he thought it would blind him.  
  
His hands unconsciously stroked the piece of raw copper they held. He could make her a necklace to fit that fiery hair, or a pin to hold it that would disappear in it completely. Or he could etch the image of her curls into a flat metallic surface, or twine copper as she twined her hair into a braid. The possibilities were endless.  
  
He could not take his eyes off her as she rushed back and forth in the vast workshop, bearing once a tool, once some water, sometimes stopping to smile at the apprentices. Her hair catching the firelight brought to his mind the image of a net catching the glint of lamplight over water.  
  
The metal dropped from his hands, and instead he reached into a bucket filled with shards of colorful glass. He pulled out a bleeding hand clutching a blue shard tightly. Copper and blue went well together. Fine glass could focus light or bend it, maybe even capture it as well.  
  
She was standing in the other side of the large room, talking merrily to one of his fellow students, who proudly displayed to her a complex web of silver and gemstones. The work was delicate but unoriginal, he observed, the gems were finely cut but completely ordinary. She smiled in delight as she was handed it and lifted it up to the lamps so patches of glinting colored light shone on her face. She was not very beautiful, but there was a certain quality to her heart-shaped face that was unique. Her eyes were not the ordinary Noldorin gray, but rather with a hint of blue in them, complimenting her hair. Blue and gray, he liked the combination, though silver may do better…  
  
Silver. He fingered the glass. Silver was a good idea. Maybe if he melted them together they would take a shape to his liking. Or they could be ruined both and smell terribly enough to attract the attention of the workshop in its entire, displaying his folly for all to see.  
  
He picked a good container and carefully melted the blue glass into it, wondering how much silver he could get away with taking.  
  
She was bringing water to her father the artisan, his teacher, to pour over a metalwork he could not see as it cooled. Steam rose from the white-hot metal, it looked like a musical instrument. She chuckled as she waved her hand to drive the steam away. It settled in her hair making it glint even more. Her eyes were bright in the firelight. He wondered how they would look outside, in the light of the Silver Tree. Maybe they would burn like the fire does, and the light in her hair…  
  
It was a good idea. Her eyes, her hair, all may light up like candles. He shaped the shell of the silver-and-glass mixture as it cooled, then poured some other molten element over it. The gentle facets of the diamond-like structures were forever captured, and light glinted off them.  
  
The warm glow of the fire was playing over her, twining itself in her white garments, making every shadow of her more pronounced. She was about his age, her body not quite yet curving, but she was beautifully shaped half lost in the shadows, not quite as tall or slender as one her age ought to be. Rounder limbs, rougher hands, different eyes, different, that was the word.  
  
He let the fire round up the pale white gem he made, giving it the shape of a drop of water upon the pavement after a light rain. It would not do to cut it as jewels were cut, it did not fit. It would be different, this new thing, his new creation.  
  
With a laugh, bidding her father farewell, she rushed out to the starlit street. He snatched the gem that was still warm and hurried after her, hoping for one last glimpse of the marvelous hair and gleeful eyes. The gem was a pale white even in the firelight and faded in the darkness of the halls. She was out of sight. He kicked the wall in frustration, and stepped out into the starlight.  
  
He opened his fist, and the gem burst into light, blue and silver fire shining from within.  
  
*******************  
  
She did not actually plan to take the shorter way home. She could wander for days in the forests around Tuna, where the sky was open between the canopies and the light of the Trees was more alive. But when the evening started to descend as Laurelin slowly faded, clouds gathered and cruel winds began to blow, and she was chilled to the bone in her light dress. So she started on a light run between the branches, drawing a straight line, heading home.  
  
Soon there was rain pouring down, water settling in her coppery hair and soaking her clothes until they stuck to her body. She gritted her teeth and ran faster. The wind tore through the trees, slammed rainwater and leafs in her face. Once she almost stumbled and fell headfirst into the mud. The clouds could not darken Telperion's light but they could hide the stars. Lightning was breaking and thunder. She was shivering as she ran with cold and fear. She quickly raised one hand to wipe her eyes. Battling not to sob, she started to sing.  
  
"But then she stopped to see  
  
Atop the hill  
  
A young man standing, arms outstretched against the chill  
  
Staring up at the storming sky as if entranced  
  
Then he danced, he danced."  
  
So she sang loudly between gasps of frozen air. She did not compose that song, but she seemed to be the only one who liked it. It brought her courage in the dark. It warmed her heart as she was forced to run up the small hills dotting one clearing in the forest. She allowed her mind to slip, thinking she was seeing the image of the Storm Dancer atop one of them. The thought of it sent a chill of fear and pleasure down her back. Could it be?  
  
But of course, it could not; it was just a song, a story told to thrill young maidens. She was only imagining the dark silhouette posed firmly on a distant hilltop; it could not really be him…  
  
Could it?  
  
She froze in her track. She thought she would fall. She was not imagining this.  
  
He was standing there, the Storm Dancer, just like in the song. A young Quendi, no older than her, but tall and beautiful under the hammering rain. He stood holding out his hands, his head held back, eyes closed, breathing slowly. His charcoal-black hair cascaded down his back, his face was sculpted of fine marble, and in them was silent ecstasy.  
  
He was so beautiful it hurt.  
  
She heard the verses torn from her lips.  
  
1  
  
2 "She could not move, could not breathe in her surprise  
  
The storm ignored for the love and madness in his eyes…"  
  
And it was all that, and more.  
  
She did not know how long she stood transfixed, staring at him as he danced to the music of the storm. She knew he could not see her, he could not know that he watched, but for some reason it didn't seem to matter that she did. All the world may come and watch, and it would still only be him and the storm.  
  
She sang louder and louder, though she was growing afraid of the words.  
  
"He touched her face, she closed her eyes,  
  
In his fingertips she felt the pulse of the open skies.  
  
Then he held her hand, and he held her glance,  
  
And they danced, oh, they danced."  
  
As she sang the last note, he abruptly stopped. He started turning toward her slowly.  
  
She almost shouted, but in the end simply slipped away, disappearing into the rain.  
  
********************  
  
He didn't think he could take it for much longer.  
  
His new half-brother seemed to be able to do only one thing, and that was wail. The golden-haired child, which all of Tirion found so charming, wailed for hours at end, all night and well into the morning hours. The boy did not get one moment of real sleep. He could have been dozing off on his feet if he was not so angry.  
  
The double-cursed baby's wails managed somehow to fill the entire outrageously vast house of his family. There was not one silent corner to sit and read, write or play, and the concentration required for working his art was entirely out of the question. His father's wife was helpless to silent her child, and his father had long since given up of any semblance of peace. 'I wasn't like this when I was that age', the boy thought bitterly.  
  
So he fled the house and wandered aimlessly, kicking every stone that happened in his path, finding grim amusement in throwing stones at trees to drive the birds away and glaring at small children until they cried. If he had to suffer, he was determined not to suffer alone.  
  
If only he had the least love for the newborn infant…  
  
He muttered a few foul words and settled in the shade of one wall, letting his dark hair, which his foster mother insisted on cutting, fall on his face.  
  
It was then that, when he lifted his gaze, he saw her.  
  
The copper-haired girl. She stood on a balcony high in the building he sat opposite of, leaning on the parapet, her eyes closed and her face turned westward.  
  
She was standing in a particular spot and angle that made the light of distant Laurelin fall directly on her face. Silently she basked in it, smiling at the warmth. He could see her breathing in a slow rhythm, the rising and falling of her chest, could see how her entire body relaxed as the light covered it all. She was magnificent as she stood there with the flawless radiance upon her, surrounded by an aura of beautiful peace, fragile and timeless.  
  
She breathed in and out, letting out a soft moan of innocent pleasure. The light played upon her face, it seemed to hold her like a lover. The balcony, the light, her face, they seemed not to exist in reality, rather to be taken for one perfect moment from a picture or a song, a glimpse of ethereal beauty, of some ideal ever unachieved in life. But she was there before him, flesh and blood and light.  
  
He sat in the shadow, gaping, eyes wide, unable to look away from her. A warmness was flowing in his veins, filling his limbs, though the hot embers in his gut were swiftly cooling. She took him away from the world where his mother was gone and his father wedded another and he could not even work his own art in his own home. Her perfection was a shield around him, or a comforting hand.  
  
He longed for her for a few precious minutes, but then she straightened with a sigh and turned around, walking back inside the house.  
  
His shoulders slumped and gaze dropped, and one moment he almost burst into tears. Then with quiet resolution, he walked out of the shadow of the wall and settled again by the opposite one. He closed his eyes and let the light wash over him, breathing in slow rhythm, feeling the soothing warmth.  
  
He fell asleep leaning on the wall, smiling.  
  
***************  
  
It was the night of Yestare, the first day of the year, which the Elves of Tirion enjoyed celebrating in as big a feast as they could prepare. The fair city of the Eldar was full of the sound of laughter, song and joyous conversation and alit with many lamps enhancing and complimenting the light of Telperion. Ribbons and flags waved in the pleasant wind. Within the halls of the Mindon Eldalieva, the great ball had just began, open to any and all who wished to dance until the light of the New Year would dawn from the west.  
  
She made her way slowly through the crowd, careful not to bump into anyone too important. Though her father the Master-Smith was well renowned in Tirion, she herself was still only a child. All the greatest of the Eldar were in the halls that night…  
  
She spotted the tall form of her father on the other side of the room, conversing with one of his fellow artisans, no doubt. She thought she would feel more comfortable in his presence, if she could ever feel comfortable at all in this crowd. The many Elves made her nervous, and they were only the start of it. Why, rumor said the Lady Varda herself had come to the city. Her heart leaped to her throat at the mere thought.  
  
So she progressed slowly, trying to concentrate on the music and the lovely smell of fine food and wine. She studied the many faces in the crowd. Once her gaze wandered and she found herself looking directly at the far end of the hall, where Finwe the Lord of the Noldor and Ingwe the High King were sitting with their wives, laughing. The former held in his lap a small boy with golden hair and large, curious blue eyes.  
  
There was another child by the Noldoran's chair, older and darker, looking around the room with a bored gaze. One moment he lifted his eyes and met hers, and she distantly felt herself stumble.  
  
The dreamer… the Storm Dancer!  
  
She averted her eyes quickly, but he was still looking at her, seeming transfixed. The boredom was gone from his eyes and he straightened, straining to keep her within his sight as she disappeared into the crowd. He could not be mistaken, he thought, it was her, the copper-haired girl, the spirit of peace incarnate. He almost moved forward, hoping to find her, talk to her...  
  
But when he could move, she was already gone.  
  
He sighed, and resumed scanning the crowd with an expression swiftly turning from boredom to contempt.  
  
She moved faster, breathing hard. She could not let him find her, could not let the reality of him shatter the wonderful illusion.  
  
Her father spotted her as she approached him, beaming and holding out his hand. She took it gratefully and came to stand by his side, smiling as he proudly declared her to his companion.  
  
"You have not met my daughter, have you, Ereglin? Not thirty years of age is she and already crafting such marvels as you have never imagined! Come, child," he smiled at her, stroking her back "would you like to meet the Kings?"  
  
She let out a chirp of delight despite herself. "Oh, Father, really?"  
  
"Would I lie?" he laughed. "Our Lord Finwe's firstborn studies under me. I believe I can get away with a few friendly words." He placed an arm around her shoulders and led her through the crowd. She felt her heart quicken as they approached the two Elven Kings, marveling at their grace, the clearness of their eyes, their laughter. As they approached, Finwe rose from his seat, placing the golden-haired child in his wife's arms, and walked toward them, grinning.  
  
"I believe you promised to introduce me to your daughter, rusco," he said lightly. She felt herself blush to the pointed tips of her ears. 'Promised to introduce…?'  
  
"And to my promise I keep, sire," her father replied, returning the King's smile. "This is her, unless I have unwittingly confused her with another russet-topped maiden. They grow on trees, you know." They both laughed. She bowed her head, feeling her cheeks tingling with heat, delighting in the presence of the greatest of her people.  
  
Finwe studied her a short while. "Ah, you are a pretty one," he said at last, now smiling at her alone. "Have you met my son? You two seem to be of the same age, and methinks you may find him pleasant company."  
  
"I have not, my Lord," she said, almost wincing at the half-truth.  
  
Finwe nodded. "Then now you shall," he answered gleefully, and looking back to the throne called out: "Come here a moment, naur hen-nin."  
  
She forced herself to look up. The King' son, the Storm Dancer, came forward reluctantly, and their eyes met. Something pierced her to the core. He recognized her as she did him, from some slip of reality that seemed like a dream they both shared.  
  
Their fathers seemed not to notice the exchange at all. After a moment, when neither she nor he said one word, her father placed a hand on her shoulder and gestured toward the King's son.  
  
"Nerdanel, meet Feanor."  
  
  
  
To Be Continued…  
  
  
  
Notes on this chapter:  
  
Our heroes at this point are the Elven equivalent of fourteen year olds.  
  
The golden-haired child is Fingolfin (yes, Nemis, *my* Fingolfin is blond).  
  
Note that the last sentence in the first paragraph, as much as I wish it to be, is not mine, rather a quote. Antoine de Saint-Exupery is the genius who thought it up.  
  
The title is a nod to any and all ElfQuest fans in the crowd. "When eyes meet eyes" refers to the phenomenon called "Recognition", in which two genetically compatible Elves are compelled to procreate, and are bound soul- to-soul in the process.  
  
"Naur hen-nin" – literally "my fire-child". "Rusco" was Mahtan's nickname, meaning "fox". My Quneya is flawed at best, so please don't be too hard on my feeble attempts. I won't make them often.  
  
The song quoted in the third segment is Tom Smith's "Storm Dancing". Before I'm assaulted for inserting 20th century music into a Silmarillion story – it's filk, it's different.  
  
Thanks to Nemis for the beta-reading! 


	3. Reverie

"Reverie"

In the personal studio of Mahtan the Master-Smith, there stood three wooden desks a small distance from each other, covered with tools and remains of stone and clay. One of them was for the master artisan himself, another was for his daughter, and the third for his prize student. Working at one of those desks, if one lifted one's eyes from one's work, one could sometimes not help but make momentary eye contact with whomever was working at another.

And so, because the Master-Smith's daughter and his prize student were both quite interested in their respective arts, they could often be found giving each other nervous glances over this or another chunk of stone. Slipping moments, usually not more than a second before they commanded themselves to look away, but in the tapestry of eyes meeting eyes, something was threatening to take shape.

Bright golden light poured into the room. Nerdanel squinted against it, rubbing her eyes. She was not yet used to the magnifying glass she was working with (a crude device, really, as the Noldor have not yet mastered the complexity of optics), and her head hurt. With a quiet sigh, she leaned closer to the half-finished sculpture, working on the smallest detail with agonizing care. 

Not that far away, and hardly far enough, Feanor carefully placed a chisel on a block of pure white quartz and landed a soft blow, working away small chips. He was very intent on his work and could never be disturbed when it went well. 

Nerdanel finished the scraping and scathing it took to tame the rock to her will. She raised her head from it with a sigh, reaching a hand to her aching neck and moaning quietly, feeling her muscles stiff and sore. Maybe there was a reason why maidens were not taught stonework. Almost unconsciously, she found herself looking over to Feanor. Why, he should have no trouble at all with those outrageously thick muscles on him…

Just as she was about to turn back, he too was done, and straightened with a grunt, stretching long arms. She did not manage to look away before he looked right back at her.

Gazes meeting, fleeting moments…

"Why do you avoid me?" She heard herself ask.

She could see that it caught him by utter surprise, the very fact that she spoke. "What?" he asked, frowning.

"You have been avoiding me ever since we were introduced, almost three years now. Why?" 

He hesitated for long moments. She could read a strange sort of reluctance in his eyes, as if he was struggling with a dread secret. Tingling heat began to rise in her face and she sought to look away, embarrassed and confused.

But Feanor folded his hands behind his back, and answered her to her face, in plain words. "I have an idea of you in my head that is perfect, and I don't want it destroyed."

It shocked Nerdanel to the core, the last answer she expected. She reflected she might have been offended if the words came from any other Elf, regardless of meaning. But she had seen him that night in the storm; now how could she blame him?

So she told him in plain words. "And I, of you."

They stood staring at each other awkwardly for a while, measuring each other with their uncertain and unfathomable gazes, each waiting for the other to break the silence, but neither of them did. Then they both blushed and looked away, turning back to their works.

Years passed before either of them gathered the courage to try again.

  
~~*~~

The storm tempted Feanor all evening, a fickle, broody lover, impatient with its lightning and thunder locked on the other side of the walls of his chambers. He smiled, glancing upwards once from the parchment to the window – patience, soon.

But patience had never been his strong suit. The essay was left halfway through – his father would not be pleased – ink spilled on the table, Fingolfin brushed off all too crudely when he dared ask where his brother was off to in such a hurry. Once he was past the doorway, he was already running, and then the rain came down.

He loosened his hair – damn Indis and her braids! – and cast off his tunic and shoes in one corner, ran through the city bare of foot and chest, breathing. Rain soaked his flowing locks, weighting them down, rain slipped over his skin, a cool, sensual touch that had him gasping, good rain to quiet the flame. 

He left the city behind him, the city he loved, the city that imprisoned. He stood on the hilltop, that hilltop of always, and willed the world gone. 

Storm dancing.

Tomorrow he would have peace.

And now he moved to the intoxicating rhythm of the storm and his own pulse, without planning, without stopping to breathe. Between rain and thunder, wind and lightning, fire and ice, he no longer knew what he was doing, how he was moving, where, how long. 

It did not matter.

He was.

May have been days, may have been minutes, and when he stopped he fell to the ground at once, on his hands and knees in the mud and panting. He coughed weakly, tilted back his head to let cool storm water down his parched throat, labored to stand. Worn, cold, shivering with adrenaline, he could barely think, just feel, and feel the wind, and feel the free air, and feel his living body. 

He staggered, started walking. Home. Not home. Not yet. Stares, disbelief, shouts. Not yet, not now. Felt hot, cooling under the rain. There was a cave in the hillside, he glanced into it with dim eyes. Blessed darkness, and – candlelight – and –

Nerdanel?

She stared up to him from where she was sitting, a book in her lap, and upon her shivering body only a thin summer dress. From the way she looked, it was painfully obvious that she had not even noticed the storm.

Her hand froze on its way to turn the page.

His gaze wandered, slowly, from the book up her arm, to her face, to her wild eyes, trying to understand the scene or register her expression. He thought he was alone.

There was such a storm outside…

They exchanged no words; there were none. She moved a little, making room for him to walk past her, and looked after him as he stumbled into the far side of the cave, there to collapse into a dreamless sleep almost at once. There was such a storm outside, while she was inside with her book, thought she was alone. 

It didn't matter.

Come morning, he woke to find her gone, and not find her again for many months.

  
~~*~~

  
Spring in Tirion brought with it beautiful days. The blue sky was absolutely cloudless, awash with the light of fair Laurelin, radiant and warm. The dew had not yet dried upon the many flowers opening to greet the morning in the Square of the Mindon. There gray stones cast playful shadows and wind was whispering in between the trees, and the water in the fountain at the center of the great marble surface sparkled and splashed merrily. There gem-laden statues shone and flags unfurled with the kindly breeze of morning, there voices were rising in song from the many windows around. There, Nerdanel twined blue flowers into her hair and stroked the marble, humming a quiet tune, and the golden light played on her face and in her hair, gently, like the hands of a lover.

It really was a lovely day, peaceful, harmonious, radiant.

Then he came storming down the street as a great black cloud, lighting in his eyes and thunder in his steps and the clash of wind and rain in the large fists that rose to strike the walls. Tall and hugely built and with his dark hair flowing past his waist, his presence tore asunder every pretense of peace the sweet morning may have tried to maintain. He kicked at the stones, trampled the flowers, struck at the shining surface of the water, and angrily sweeping at his tear-streaked face, settled near a wall, hiding from the sky.

Nerdanel was taken aback, but she could hardly say she was surprised.

She moved her eyes reluctantly from the light shining of West and sought out his gray gaze under the mess that was his hair, but did not find out.

Sighing soundlessly, she turned back to the light and the flowers and sat in silence as Feanor began sobbing loudly, crying as the little boy he had not been for twenty years bow. It was a long time before he relaxed; by the time his breath settled, she realized smust have sat aimlessly for almost an hour.

She did not havebe told why he sought the shadows; every Elf in Tirion knew of the lovely, golden-haired newborn son of the Noldoran.

"Curse her…" she heard him mutter. "Curse them both, forever…!"

Nerdanel sang, softly, to herself and the wind.

Behind her, Feanor slowly raised his head, gray eyes wide open in astonishment and sad longing. She had a good voice, as did all the Eldar, if not unique or particularly skilled. She sang very quietly and her song seemed to mingle freely with the sunlight and the sounds of the early morning. Ever so slowly, he rose and walked towards her as her song drifted on. The light could not quite penetrate his long hair and left his face to shadow, but she lifted her head, and her own face basked in the golden radiance. For a precious moment, they were frozen both, clashing and attracting opposites like two sides of a coin, live silver and gold and a day.

Nerdanel gave a sharp yelp and jumped up at the sudden touch on her arm. Feanor's hands were large and crushing, and he held her as he would a fleeing prey.

She spun to look him in the face, startled and hurt. There was no anger in his gaze as much as there was need. For a dread second she did not know what to think he wanted, but his eyes were those of a child in pain. He spoke to her in a voice that broke, words that made no sense.

"Would you teach me how to do it? How to be so calm and controlled, how to fit in with the world so well? Would you please teach me?"

She stuttered: "I – I can't…"

"Please!" His grip on her arm became more and more painful, but so did the look in his eyes. "I beg of you, before I… please…!"

He choked, and his hand trembled. At that moment, all she wanted was to say yes, that she would give to him that which cannot be given, if only he would stop holding her, looking at her, frying. Her resentment at the world, her quiet boredom, was focusing, sharpening, turning into rage.

"I can't," she said softly. "It is not something one can teach."

The expression that suddenly spread on his face could be akin to shock or horror. His fingers twitched on her arm, as if undecided whether to let go or not. She began to move backward slightly.

Then his grip hardened again, and he pulled her up to her feet and flung her away from him with incredible strength. "Then be gone from my sight, and damn you!"

Even as he spun in a violent motion, setting on a march down the street he came from, she froze. Never had any spoken to her in such a fashion; it felt like being slapped, bringing a burning to her cheeks and eyes. She stared after him in terrible pain for a moment, and then cried out:

"Damn me? Do I weep like a child rather than stand and face my trouble?"

She turned then, and tried hopelessly to stop the tears with her sleeve. She did not see him stop in his track, nor look over his shoulder, stunned, nor the spark of understanding in his eyes, though she may have been comforted by the latter.  


~~*~~

  
He locked them in the gallery.  
  
A small room it was that Mahtan set aside to display his students' works; art galleries could be found virtually in every street in Tirion. Most works were sent elsewhere to be shown properly to the ever-eager crowd, few remained, placed in that room adjoining the workshop. A city of caskets and boxes of glass, gold, silver and stone shining from every corner. And silence, and peace, as if to tell the onlooker – you are but a visitor here, in creation's home.  
  
Nerdanel went there often, to look for leftover inspiration. She knew the place like the back of her hand, on all its wonders, had practically grown up there, left by the ever-busy craftsman and aloof poet she had for a father and mother to play amid the artworks. There were all her young dreams remembered – first shapes in stone, first girlish fantasies. They became firmly connected in her mind. The gallery was hers, just as her own private room. But whereas her room was a mess of books and half-shaped clay, echoing her mind at most times, the gallery was order, and order imposed. She felt safe there.  
  
But Feanor has burst in uncalled and unexpected, just like that, as absent-minded and blunt as always, locked the door behind them and thrust the key into her faltering hands. She did not get the chance to look at him.  
  
"Here," he said hurriedly, turning his back before he finished and walking away. "Don't let me out."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Don't let me get out," having to repeat the request obviously irked him. He crossed his hands behind his back and began pacing the room, casting a nervous glance her way. "Not until I truly beg for it, understand?"  
  
She was supposed to understand? Tucking the key in one pocket, Nerdanel retreated behind the nearest statue, placing her hands on the smooth white surface. It was her home.  
  
She glimpsed Feanor from around the corner, framed by whiteness, statue and distant wall, sealed glass around him. He paced restlessly, in silence, so much that looking felt almost like an intrusion. Surely an explanation was in order, but she could not demand one. He was in her home, and suddenly it became his.  
  
The artworks seemed to bask in his presence.  
  
He had a way with them, a tender way that amazed her, as she stood there watching, slowly encircling the statue to keep him in her sight as he moved. An instant bond formed between his hands and the metal and marble, even with the bare glass boxes clean of any ornament. And between him and her as she watched was a quiet bond also. They played a dancing game about the gallery with the changing of the light and the ticking of moments, of gazes evading and dragging footsteps, of questions left unanswered, unasked.  
  
_Don't let me out… not until I truly beg._  
  
It made a long and ever-changing maze out of Nerdanel's gallery-home, riddled with the statues, the pillars, the caskets for hiding places and dead ends. She busied herself about it, looking – the glass and polished silver, very fair, caught his image in a cruel mirror, and he was everywhere even as his touch melded silently with all those rescued shapes. She wondered what they sought in him, all those rescued shapes, yearning for him, as if to get s step closer to perfection.  
  
Perfection, she thought.  
  
Their gazes met for the first time.  
  
She saw, from across the length of a painted wall, how he frowned, a subtle flame kindled in his gray eyes. It was plain, all that he was thinking. _Who is this woman?_

And who was she, playing with him in the art gallery like this?  
  
"Did you ever – not know, what to do?" He asked her, raising his hands up to look at them – it was not sudden, it was fate.  
  
An explanation may have been in order, but she did not need one.

  
"Often," she answered, with brutal plainness, giving no weight to the words. There was a sort of joy in knowing he, also, needed the gallery at times. Silence, art, leftover inspiration, that he came here, now, for her own reasons, that he echoed her shortcomings in his way. She stopped; He was exactly opposite of her. He stroked a stone carving as tall as himself. Her cheek brushed against a vase of purest crystal. "Inspiration is such a fleeting thing."  
  
"Like hope."  
  
"An adequate comparison, Feanaro."  
  
A smile tugged at the edges of his lips, hearing her speak his name so. "You do not understand me at all, do you?"  
  
Her eyes widened, blood rushed to her face. _You cannot hurt me with these words, I do understand_. No word of it crossed her lips. He had naught with understanding.

Stuck, was he… they…

She turned from the vase, and sought the sparkling metal instead.  
  
Fragile time within the gallery. Before she knew it, the lights had changed.  
  
First hints of silver gave an eerie glow to the white of the walls. Feanor lost his composure five times before that moment, each time walking to the door, trying the handle, cursing when he found it locked. He glanced to her often in his circling way about the marble maze. The key: but she had it now.  
  
"Open the door, Nerdanel," he said once, commanding.  
  
Hot embers burned furiously within her chest at the trap she found herself in. Anything she would do, open or leave be, wobe obeying him.  
  
The marble, the paintings, the glass.  
  
"Open, I said!"  
  
She drifted.  
  
They were it , at the game that never ended, two sides of a coin or a day. He paced around, a storm cloud dark and bursting with frustration. She walked about, studying the artworks in the silence of a summer afternoon. The door was locked.

First flickers of silver; perhaps it was the way they played on the glass. Feanor's gaze snapped sharply to one side – Nerdanel paused to look – his gray eyes lit up in a crack of lightning. A moment he stood, staring and transfixed, she could hear him mutter, see his hands clench, loosen, feel the rescued shapes tremble with his excitement. 

The storm broke before her eyes. 

__

Such a fleeting thing…  
  
"Nerdanel…" he whispered, his voice shaking. "Please open the door…"  
  
He could not be refused. She took the key out instantly, readily, stepped to the door, and stopped.  
  
Stopped in her track, frozen, he turned.  
  
How his eyes were shining.  
  
"The workshop," he said. "Now, _please_."  
  
What was he seeing? What did she miss?  
  
The key, small and cold in her hands. She took another step, saw him move eagerly forward, barely stopping himself also when she stopped. A shiver ran down his spine and through his body, she could hear his breath quicken, snatching at the air.

Begging, yes.  
  
"_Please!_"  
  
"No," she said.  
  
Perhaps she expected surprise, but there was none. The horror dawned on him quick, instant, terrible. She did understand. His breath caught in his throat, a choked sob.  
  
"I'll lose it, you know I'll lose it, let me out to the workshop, please, Nerdanel, it hurts…"  
  
Hurts… oh yes, she understood. Understood through yearning, through hoping, for that very maddening pain that had his knees buckling and his hands clutching till they bled. The marble and the glass echoed with his racing pulse, each heartbeat the desperate banging of the newborn idea.  
  
"Please…" he whispered again, from where he had fallen, looking up to her amid his tears, but she only held the key.  
  
She stood, stood watching. He had retreated into a corner, far from the light and the artworks, hugged his legs to his chest and rocked back and forth, whimpering. His hands shook worst, aching to race with his mind, that fleeting inspiration demanding to burst forth. Somewhere inside she hated herself for this torture, but she could not open the door. She had to see, as she had to ask him long before, had to see what it was, how it felt. This suffering, this sweet agony, this pain that births creation; she envied Feanor, she envied him to point of hatred.

She took a step towards him, away from the door.  
  
And she was never ready for how he leapt suddenly, madness flowing from his eyes, with a cry, wrenching one of the statues from its place – one of _his_, no less – swinging it at her. She slipped and fell backwards, crying out, in her shock, and that saved her life. Somehow she managed to grab his arms as he bore down, fear gave her strength and pain made him weak. The shining glass, an inch from her head, she screamed at him the strangest words –   
  
"Stop! Stop, you will destroy it!"  
  
"It's mine to destroy!" He snarled.  
  
"It's _your work!_"  
  
Oh yes, she understood.  
  
He stopped.  
  
His grip on the statue nearly faltered, but he thrust it into her hands ere it could fall and shatter. He said nothing more – no apologies, no explanation, no regrets – but fell to the floor, heavily, and lay flat, his head in his hands.  
  
The silver light shone through the window, giving blue shadows to all things. It could have been a beautiful image, maybe a beautiful scene, Nerdanel thought, looking at the Spirit of Fire at her feet. And perhaps that alone was what made her, at last, open the door.

  
  
~~*~~

"Do you think I am mad, Nerdanel?"  
  
The silver again gave way to gold; the light played upon the roofs of Tirion in angles and reflections, making shapes in the sky. The Trees well complimented the city of white stone. Nerdanel sat with her head on her knees and her hands in her hair, without looking up. Maybe her eyes were closed.  
  
Feanor came outside an hour after she finally set him free from the gallery, stumbled outside, sweaty and exhausted, his hands burned. He stood behind her, slumped against a wall regaining his breath, and she brought her hands deeper and head lower, closed within herself and silent.  
  
The light changed, and then he asked that question at last.

There was no use leaving it unanswered – the silence was no comfort this time.  
  
But it hung in the light-filled air and did not dissipate or let go, this question, this very good question, as Nerdanel wondered what had gone on inside the workshop, these moments she did not dare observe. What had he created, that burned him so as she watched, burned through him, stone, glass, maybe metal doing their will, rescued shapes calling. Had he really nearly shattered the statue upon her head – had he really shed tears of sweet agony?  
  
"Yes," she murmured faintly, feeling the sea behind her eyes. "Yes, I think you are mad. And I do not know what else to think…!"  
  
In her voice, equal measures of terror and jealousy. She found she was suddenly shivering, shivering with the thought of what almost happened, of what happened.  
  
A quick breath, and Feanor kneeled besides her, his hands staying in the air an inch from her hair, her skin. His face was twisted with mixing emotion – grief, anxiety, yes, even regret.  
  
"This was never intended," he said in a low voice, swallowed hard. "You weren't meant to see…"  
  
She sniffed, angry at her tears, looked up, amazed that she was able to wrest such emotion from him. Where had her Storm Dancer gone?   
  
"I wanted to see," she breathed, moving the hair from her face. Their eyes met, willingly. "I do not regret seeing."  
  
"Even with the pain, Nerdanel?"  
  
"For the pain, Feanaro."  
  
His name, again. He nodded.  
  
His hand, frozen in midair, moved to her again. She raised trembling fingers in an answer. The touch was simple – tears and sweat, both hands tender and unsure, untried, a first touch. Jealousy, of pain, of peace, turned to understanding, silent understanding, frozen for a long time between silver and gold.

To Be Continued…

Notes on this chapter:

First and foremost, thanks galore to Ithilwen and Nemis for insightful beta-work!

Our heroes, when this chapter ends, would be around fifty years old, just at their majority by Elven standards. 

See? No bad Quenya this time. I considered using the characters' Quenya names in the narrative, but decided against it. Somehow, this story being as it is, it felt more genuine that it should be in the spirit of the _Quenta_ than historically accurate. They'll be calling each other by their Quenya names, however, for some reason which might have something to do with rhythm of line.

The next chapter, you are warned beforehand, will have not only a considerable jump in time, but also a different style (which I have tried to incorporate in this one, and failed miserably, the main reason this chapter was so long in the making). While I'm not sure it'll help the story be more coherent, it will at least mean it would be updated much more regularly.

The title is a reference to "Changeling: the Dreaming". If anyone feels like messing themselves up, there's a quote from Clive Barker hidden somewhere also. This is also a great chapter for playing "Spot the Leitmotif" J .


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